


Time In A Bottle

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Bittersweet, Fluff, Gen, Podfic Welcome, Spoilers for Episode 153, backstory speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: Cel listens to the sounds from below them, the clink of bottles, the sound of laughter. They’re familiar sounds, comforting sounds and yet they also make Cel feel a little sad as well. It’s the sound of endless campfires, of drinks around a table, countless friends found and lost. Even the bottle of elven mead they’re currently holding in their hands in a bittersweet comfort as Cel traces the smooth neck of the bottle with their thumb.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Time In A Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I wrote shortly after episode 153, posted to Tumblr, than entirely forgot to post here.

It’s hard to tell time in their little quarantine room, but there _are_ markers. The delivery of meals, for one. The checking for blue veins the second. Cel hadn’t realized that usually that was a daily thing, and the fact that Zolf had only done it once to them back during their first week together had been a unknown kindness. Cel has become more glad by the day that they built a hammock first thing, a nearly private space where they don’t have to look at anyone and it’s not so easy for anyone to look at them. No one comments on Cel retreating to it as soon as the daily check is done, and no one tries to coax them into well meaning conversation afterwards unless Cel initiates it first. It only confirms Cel’s belief that they made the right choice in deciding to continue on with these folks. For all that most of them have a hard time articulating their feelings, they’re all terribly considerate of Cel’s own.

Cel listens to the sounds from below them, the clink of bottles, the sound of laughter. They’re familiar sounds, comforting sounds and yet they also make Cel feel a little sad as well. It’s the sound of endless campfires, of drinks around a table, countless friends found and lost. Even the bottle of elven mead they’re currently holding in their hands in a bittersweet comfort as Cel traces the smooth neck of the bottle with their thumb.

“Are you one of mine?” Cel asks softly. If the bottle once had a label, it’s long since gone, but Cel would still be able to tell if it were one they had brewed, they’re sure of it. The color looks dark in here, but sunlight would show them if the liquid had the faintest rainbow shine to it, the hallmark of all of Cel’s batches. If it’s one of theirs then most likely it’ll taste like autumn apples, or summer blackberries, or the little wild strawberries they’d always been so good at finding in the spring.

Or maybe it’s one of their mother’s creations and it’ll turn molten gold in the sunlight. Cel’s mother had always favored flowers for her meads, lavender or roses or honeysuckle. How many mornings had Cel spent picking flowers with their mother, not knowing just how precious those moments were?

Of course, it’s possible that it’s not their mead at all, but someone else’s legacy all bottled up and waiting to be discovered. That’s exciting too, an adventure waiting to happen, a surprise. Will they have used rainwater or snow melt? Fruits or spices or flowers? Would the honey they’d have used come from happy or sullen bees? It’s a mystery behind glass, but not one Cel is in a hurry to uncork. Once they open it, it’ll have to be drunk, and then it will be gone, just a memory. Like Cel’s town.

“The bees left first,” Cel says quietly to the bottle they hold. “One day all the hives were empty. All my little friends, gone.”

There had been no memorial for the bees. There had been no memorial for the town either, just a gradual withering until there hadn’t been enough people left for the place to be a town anymore, to be safe anymore. It had been the first place Cel had left behind, the first of so many.

No, Cel will not open the bottle now, no matter how much they wish to share it with their new friends, no matter how homesick just the sight of it is making them. The bottle should be for a special occasion. A celebration, a victory toast, laughter surrounding them. A memorial, a silent glass raised, sweetness to wash away the bitter taste of death and loss. It’s not just towns Cel has left behind.

“I miss you,” Cel whispers, staring into the depths of the bottle with a sigh before putting it back in their bag and peering over the side of the hammock.

“Heya,” Cel says, and Zolf looks up at them.

“Hey yourself,” Zolf says. “We were just about to start a round of poker, you want in?”

“Can I be an octopus?”

Zolf groans, but Cel has already figured out that this is one of Zolf’s good-natured groans as opposed to his actually grumpy ones. “How come you always want to be an octopus when we play poker?”

It’s because Cel is absolute rubbish at keeping a good poker face, but they’re not going to tell Zolf that. It’s bad enough that Cel’s beginning to suspect that both Hamid and Carter have started to figure out what colors Cel-octopus turns when they have a good hand (tentacle?) of cards.

“Keeps things interesting!” Cel says with a smile as they carefully flip themselves out of the hammock and go to sit with the rest of their friends. Time changes all things, turns people into memories and changes water and honey and yeast into mead. Cel is determined to make all the memories they can with these people before time takes them away as well.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m angel-ascending over on Tumblr and angel_in_ink over on Twitter if y’all want to stop by and say hi!


End file.
